Looks
by Saulie
Summary: It was something to do, living. Matt and Mello and something that didn't happen.


(Written in a rather rowdy brewhouse in Massachusetts on a trip; never really intended to make much sense. Rated U for Unedited.)

-

Sure they fit in with the crowd. Sure they did. They both had appalling posture, didn't they? But anyone with half a brain knew there were varying degrees of everything. Matt slouched passively, and that made sense: his thing for good or ill had always been not giving a damn and he did that well, managing a hybrid of bored and suave that had certainly served. Mello, though, Mello slouched _actively _like he did everything else—and believe it or not, that made sense, too. Mello wasn't as good at apathy as Matt was; he was very occasionally terrible at it. What Mello gave a damn about he couldn't throw away, but he couldn't stop or slow down, so it just hurt like hell and he kept it to a minimum. Matt had understood that from the beginning. Almost.

--almost—

--Mello's stance and his slight smirk and his rare and relished self-satisfaction, they said: _Make me look your way. _They said: _Try me. _They said: _Make me give a fuck. I dare you. _

-

There was music playing now, a mediocre little tune that Matt could have sworn he'd heard before. Linda Ronstadt. (Linda. How was she doing? Did she--) The music, like irrelevant thoughts, faded into the noise and the smoke and the shifting, obvious

expressions.

_I love youuuuu…for sentimental reasooons…_

"Hi, welcome to, I'm Miriam, I'll be your—"

Her eyes were fixed dully on her little note-pad—girl in a green skirt, waitress apron, paying college tuition with her maybe-decent salary. College. God, what a thought. She spoke quickly, few inflections, actress in a long-running show no one ever came to see anymore. She knew the drill. Eh. They let people like this in _college? _

"—this evening, can I get you—"

That quick glance upwards brought her sight in direct contact with Mello's face, though.

Yeah.

Matt just watched them. The girl's eyes were wide and lined with too much makeup. Amane Misa would've been ashamed—then again, MisaMisa never did her makeup thinking of how to do that look, that look that said _holy shit, what the hell happened to _you?

Mello was giving her a Look.

It wasn't an offended Look. It wasn't even a 'what are you staring at' Look. Mello was thinking at the moment how the slanted script _M _at the beginning of her name on that little 'Hello my name is' tag was somehow pathetic and ultimately unappealing. He was also thinking, not unlike Matt, that he needed a drink. But a Look was so much more than the distilled sentiment of immediate thoughts; a Look was the most nonchalant of outright aggressions. Mello did them perfectly even before that explosion gave him an addendum, which was, _I've seen a hell of a lot more than you have. _

"Yeah?" said Mello. –ooh—the man pulled no punches, you had to give him that.

Hello-my-name-is-Miriam gulped. "Can I…get you something to drink?"

_Thirstily. _

"House ale, thanks."

"And you, um, sir?"

Matt (gratified to have merited an Um Sir) changed his mind and said water. His fake ID said he was twenty-three but he figured he didn't need an inebriant. Nineteen years—some of them with Mello—had given him a pretty good instinct.

_I hope you do believe…I've given you my heart. _

_-_

The sex appeal that was happening here, Matt realized, was classic Mello: it was intense and far from subtle and came at you from an angle, like a wave of dizziness from standing up too quickly. Intoxicating, really. Addictive. Half the people here had knocked back five or six beers by now and the rows of shot glasses were growing longer, but that was nothing. Hell, you could _drive _with that, although not if you had the police on your ass. –How was it that he was in a position to know that again? Oh, right. He was with Mello, wasn't he? And it occurred to Matt that green-skirt wasn't the first to get the Mello effect tonight, and that was weird, because Matt usually didn't—but, what the hell. You only lived once. It was something to do, living.

-

--but Mello was a physical being, he was. The scar was an abstract piece etched into his face and it took many shapes and the abrupt metamorphses it caused intensified all his expressions, his eyes fixed now into irritation and disgust—ooh, sexy.

Miriam of the wrinkled apron and flustered expressions had set down their check and two crinkling peppermints, but hadn't left. She was starting at Mello. Her stare had changed. She was quite pretty, really. Matt might've flirted with her if he'd wanted to mess with the dynamic, which he didn't, all things considered.

--probably sought-after, and here she was the victim of unlikely charisma; whoops!

(Something…ha. Okay.)

She opened her mouth to say something, but Mello—

--interrupted, standing with a gentleman's apologetic and anachronistic grace.

"Well, got to get going," he said lazily, "you know?" Matt stood as well, supposing Mello wanted to leave quickly for some reason. Except "you know?" somehow turned into "…y'know?" savored and suggestive, Mello's arm thrown around Matt's shoulders (_physical.)_

Miriam had dinner-plate eyes.

Years of 'be cool' practice and dark goggles made it only a fraction less difficult for Matt not to crack up laughing—had to keep up with Mello, though, Mello whose slow smile spoke _volumes. _Even someone _not _all that fluent in body language could get _this _picture. "Long night ahead," Mello drawled, then turned to favor Miriam with the abck-end of his tight leather pants and escorted Matt out the door.

They made it halfway into the parking lot. It was pitchblack outside the square of flourescent light provided by eerie towering poles, and the sky was littered with clouds slightly darker than itself and the ground with squashed aluminum cans. And it was one of those stupid things—those really stupid things that just seem funny enough to amsue the whole damn world and later just make anyone but you roll their eyes—the two of them dissolving into ridiculous giggling that turned into laughter.

Really, really stupid.

"The hell was that?" Matt managed, trying to catch his breath.

"Fun. Did you see her expression? Like—" Mello's eyes widened in a very accurate impression of Miriam's, which set off the snickering again until Mello could add with a shrug, "I felt like it."

"And that—"

"Means everything." That half-cocked grin. "You know it."

Oh, he did. "You _felt like it?" _

"I did. Doing what she didn't expect. It was something to do."

(Mello loved watching people's expressions when they didn't expect something. He always had; always would—always liked it most when it was unexpected, when he cracked the imperturbable, or just if someone's expression was particularly good. Back when he was a kid he'd vowed to get one out of L and Near.

That day, with L—best day ever.

The only time he'd ever seen Near look surprised was probably the worst.)

"You do know what she probably _expects _us to be doing right now."

"Eh?" A pause. "…Ah. Yeah."

Matt shook his head ruefully. _Shameless. _

"You mean, like--?"

_Yes. _

…like that.

Although Miriam, she probably didn't have that kind of vivid sensual imagination.

(Mello _was _a physical person.)

After some time Mello was giving Matt an entirely different kind of Look, that was amused and impressed and somehow _satiated. _

Matt said, "The hell was _that?" _–catching his breath, _again. _

Mello grinned. "Fun."

--and turned and headed to the car, adding eventually without stopping: "Come on, Matt, let's get going."

Matt's surprised expressions were rare and didn't last long, but they were good any day of the week.


End file.
